"Only Collects" by Adrian Markle—Our September 2023 Silver Medal Winner

Adrian is our second place winner from the contest posted in our September 2023 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“The spare use of dialogue and the creative use of the protagonist’s memories placed us deep into the moment with this telling of the image prompt. The scene was set effectively without being overly obvious, and we were left wondering and hoping for safe release.”

“The story captures the setting, fears, and characters perfectly. Very assured writing. As reader, I felt the heat, the worry, the potential for loss, the devastation. I enjoyed the descriptions, such as “two small creek beds.” All the little details gather to tell the story without melodrama.”

“A hauntingly apocalyptic tale!”

Meet Adrian

Adrian Markle is the author of the novel Bruise (Brindle & Glass, 2024). He has approximately twenty stories in or forthcoming in magazines and anthologies in the UK, US, Europe, and Canada, including EVENT, Queen's Quarterly, and Pithead Chapel, for which he has been nominated for a Pushcart and Best Small Fictions.

Born and raised in BC, he has a PhD in English by Creative Practice from the University of Exeter and teaches creative writing at Falmouth University in the UK.

Only Collects

read Adrian’s unedited story

There is a moment just before midnight, when Anna’s fingertips rest against the underside of the passenger door handle of their Suburban, and she looks back toward the house—which, in the light of the fifty-thousand-hectare wildfire stalking their valley, is painted like every other thing she can see: amber, bronze, ginger, rust, some burning colour in between—and remembers the time her high-school volleyball team went down to California for a series of exhibition games and field trips. In San Francisco, they drove out to see what was left of the redwood forests, and they crowded into Chinatown to see the lantern festival, where people wrote their wishes in light across the sky.

In Palo Alto she billeted with a girl—Sadie? Sandra?—who Anna convinced that it never warms in Canada, that snow doesn’t melt. It only collects year-round, until the government shovels it into the back of trucks to be driven down across the border to melt in the states. That girl was on the honour role. She had early admittance to Stanford. She was that “bright” type of girl, the kind that seems like they’re in competition with the sun over which of them can rise earlier every day, shine brighter. But she had been so ready to believe that nonsense about Canada, the cliché that it was always cold. Anna wonders what that girl would think of what was happening here now, but she doesn’t wonder long. She opens the SUV door and looks across the cab at Justin. It was when she’d got home from that trip that they’d first got together, actually. Funny how things work out.

His jaw muscles flex and twitch. He’s sweating, the hair at his temple below his Stampeders hat is glistening and plastered flat. She’s sweating too—she can feel it on her back when she buckles herself in. Behind them, Kayden also sweats in the booster seat he’s almost grown out of. She wonders if they could leave the seat behind, free up more space. But it’s too late for changes. She and Justin had argued for hours about what to pack, things of sentimental value or financial value. Things they’d need down the line, or things they’d need in the next few days. At one point, his main priority had seemed to be his rifle collection. By the end, she felt they were packing things neither of them wanted.

Kayden’s downy hair slicks to his forehead. From the backpack at her feet, she pulls out a water bottle, but does a doubletake as she passes it back. The light from over the ridge makes the bottle look like the Orange Crush Anna used to buy from Mac’s when she was a girl.

Justin backs out of the driveway and edges out of the cul-de-sac. He drives slower than she’s ever seen him, even counting when she was pregnant. Even counting before she got pregnant with Kayden and they used to drive home from the Murphy’s Bar at three in the morning, wasted and paranoid. A lot of the houses they pass are empty already. Some few are still in the process of being abandoned. The people hurrying bags from the doors to their trucks don’t say anything to them as they pass. They don’t seem to be saying anything to each other, either.

On the road out of town that will eventually take them to the Trans-Canada Highway, she whispers to herself the things they should not have left behind. Passports. Photo albums. The letters he wrote her when he was in the forces. He keeps his eyes fixed forward. It’s not long before they see an SUV, a white Explorer with a blue stripe, pulled over on the side of the road. Justin pulls up beside it. The Explorer still idles. She thinks, for a second, that it might have been a good idea to bring at least one rifle, but there’s no going back now. The driver is middle-aged, skinny, and has a moustache. She’s seen him a few times shopping in the Co-op. The man’s face is dirty, except for two small creek beds that run clean down from his eyes. He stands in front of his vehicle with his hands on his head, looking at the corona growing over the ridges. It reminds her, strangely, of the lanterns she saw in her teens. But there are millions of them, burning up the night.

Justin rolls down his window. “You okay?” he asks.

The driver nods without looking their way.

They see several more trucks pulled off onto the roadside. Justin slows beside them and revs his engine to get the drivers’ attention. They are, every one, mute. Hands on their heads as if in surrender, or pressed to their faces. There’s nothing Justin or Anna can do about that. Once he confirms they’re not having truck trouble, Justin forges further up the hill. He is a pretty good guy, she thinks. Sometimes, when they stop like this, she caresses his shoulder. Justin doesn’t honk at any of these people, and she knows without his saying that it’s because it feels inappropriate for the moment, like they are all mourning. Maybe that’s why no one has really spoken. Behind them, Kayden starts to grizzle, each breath short and desperate. Anna reaches a hand behind her and clasps his knee. It is slick with sweat.

As they crest the hill that takes them out of the valley, she is shocked to see what looks like a snowflake land on the windshield, and then another. “Get the . . .” she says and hooks a finger through the air, tapping twice on the warm glass. Justin looks at her and nods and turns on the wiper as the ash falls. It leaves grey streaks on the windows, gathers in the corners, drifts gently into the air to settle on the road behind them. It does not melt, only collects.

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